Improbus
by Daze485
Summary: Set somewhere between Dragons of Autumn Twilight and Dragons of Winter Night. Raistlin dealing with visions and everyone else dealing with Raistlin. Review if it strikes your fancy, or if it doesn't.
1. Chapter 1

That night's shelter was both deplorable and sumptuous at once, in Raistlin's opinion. It was deplorable in almost every observable aspect, a jagged crevice in a forbidding rock formation, set in the middle of a howling wilderness of freezing winds and sifting snow; but it was sumptuous in one important – if somewhat subjective – regard: it was a _shelter_. The group had seen very little in the way of prospective shelters in the last few hours of trudging, and it was with the grudging joy of the desperate that they climbed through the ice-encrusted entrance to the small cave.

The kender darted rapidly to every corner of the interior, investigating with unseemly alacrity after the hours of unforgiving hiking. Coming up empty – at least seeming to – he grinned up at them toothily, folded into a compact ball on the floor and fell asleep. Raistlin watched the succession of events with a wearily wary eye, which he rolled at the kender's grand finale, in equal parts inspired by irritation and relief.

Tanis stood very straight, just inside the cave mouth, taking a deep breath and raking his gaze over the cave's rather sparse, expectedly rocky interior. Raistlin smirked slightly from his position leaning against a relatively smooth patch of the cave's wall – Tanis had perfected the art of looking calmly thoughtful and certain, as befit the leader of such a prestigious group as theirs, when he had everyone's eyes on him. Raistlin knew that if he were alone and unobserved, the half-elf would likely just grimace at the cave's non-existent charms and lay down, giving up on any hope of warmth, comfort or worthwhile rest and recuperation. But, being the leader, he donned his façade and pretended to consider the potential of the hard, sterile lump of rock that they had stumbled into. He opened his mouth, preparing to speak; Raistlin leaned forward, lips twisted into a mocking smile – this would be good.

"Well, it certainly protects us from the wind." The half-elf's voice fell just short of confidence, settling somewhere in the realm of resigned. Not the fearless, miracle-working, unassailable leader the others were hoping for, Raistlin thought with satisfaction.

"But it's freezing in here!" Caramon was, as always, quick to point wide-eyed at the obvious. "There's no way to make a fire: how are we going to keep warm, or – or make food?"

Raistlin sighed at that: of course, in their current situation, Caramon's priorities would be with his stomach and a warm meal. He bit back a biting comment, certain that any acidity on his part would be rendered ineffective by the wet and cold of the weather. And then there was the stormy look on Sturm's face, his moustache dripping comically and his eyes flashing angrily, which was yet another discouragement from attempting any provocation. Raistlin wasn't sure he could deal with the outcome of such provocation, at this point. He could feel his right hand beginning to tremble, and quickly slipped it inside the sleeve of his robe.

"I am certain we can find a way to prepare some nourishment," Goldmoon spoke softly but with authority, picking up the thread of reassurance at Tanis' weary glance with Riverwind towering mute behind her. "We can look through the packs, there may be some dry rations remaining since our stop in the last town."

Gilthanas snorted humourlessly from where he was huddled, shivering, on the ground.

"I doubt, even if they remain in the packs, that the rations can still be described as dry." Raistlin felt his grin grow at that. Even the haughty elf stooped to contrariness when cold and uncomfortable – oh, how the mighty fall.

"You know what? You're not being at all helpful! Goldmoon is trying to make this bearable, and what are you doing? Sitting and sniping!" The knight had finally exploded, his pent-up frustration finding its outlet on the elf's unsuspecting head. Raistlin watched and silently thanked – the gods? himself? – that he had been observant enough to keep that rage from being directed at him. He had spent long enough as Sturm's favourite whipping post to know when to just keep out of his way. He was far too tired to cross tongues with the blockhead tonight.

Gilthanas was struggling to rise, whether to confront the knight or just to shift position was unclear, but Tanis decided to get in front of developments either way. He moved between Gilthanas and the fuming knight – Raistlin could almost see the snow on Sturm's shoulders going up in steam – but it was Flint who spoke.

"Sturm, this isn't best helpful either! We can't set to fighting between ourselves now, right when the going's getting rough again. We'll figure it out; and, if we can't, we'll get through it. Now sit down and shut up, the pair of you." Flint's eyes glinted as he tipped his head back to glare up at the knight, a weight of sense shoring up his words with a strength missing from Sturm's angry pronouncements and Gilthanas' bitter comment. Raistlin watched as the knight met Flint's eyes and quickly sat where he stood, lips pressed firmly shut. He always did take chastisement well, Raistlin thought with a lifted eyebrow and a supressed snort. Gilthanas looked slightly abashed in his corner as well, though Flint hadn't even turned to him. Interesting, that.

Tanis looked down at the elf, took a breath as if to say something, then seemed to change his mind. Laurana slid over to huddle next to her brother, moving away from Tika who sat near a wall with her head bent, her silence very likely only a product of her exhaustion. There was snow in Laurana's golden tresses, flecks of twinkling winter white tangled in a forest of summer yellow –

A vision of white-grey ash falling like snow on a field of golden grain flickered through Raistlin's thoughts; it was neither a figment of his imagination, nor a memory of his own – it came from some other source. Raistlin shivered and closed his eyes, bringing his now visibly trembling hand to his head. The vision had trailed pain through his mind in its wake, like the residual tail of a shooting star, and there were more pressing against the back of his mind. More visions, from whatever source. Raistlin could think of three possibilities, none of them benign, to himself or to the greater scheme, and he forced himself to gather his failing strength and shore up his defenses.

Eventually, inch by inch, the pain receded and the press of impending visions lessened. They lurked still, but Raistlin felt certain that he could keep them out now, whatever flare of strength that had fueled them seeming to have died. Distantly, he could feel warm hands on his shoulders and a cold solidity at his back – the cave wall. The wall propped him up, and the hands – the hands were quite reassuring, warm as they were and unafraid of him, as so many were –

Raistlin stopped his thoughts, shoring up defenses against yet another threat inside his head, and forced his eyes open. Unnervingly, it took a few minutes for his eyes to focus, the world an infinite blue blur. When the fog did dissipate, it was Caramon's worried face that he first made out, blinking rapidly. It was odd – not Caramon's concerned face, which he had expected – but the desperation in Caramon's eyes. Raistlin had seen concern for himself so often plastered across his twin's features, that he was certain that he knew every detail and nuance of the expression. This time, it was different. There was an edge to the worry, a kind of urgent sense of danger that Raistlin had only ever seen on Caramon's face when they were preparing for a battle, the odds wildly in their opponents' favour. He didn't want to admit it, even to himself, but the look disturbed him. It took a lot to tear his eyes away and survey the rest of their company, alerted by the sound, or lack thereof: the cave had fallen completely silent, even the roar of the growing gale outside seeming muted.

They were all staring at him. Even the kender, who had apparently awoken, but who remained uncharacteristically silent, seemingly unable or unwilling to break the heavy, deathly silence of the others. Raistlin didn't like it in the least. His eyes flicked from person to person, searching for some clue that would explain their behaviour. The kender looked curious – as always – but also vaguely worried; Riverwind wore the habitual look of revulsion that stole over his face whenever he looked at or even fleetingly recalled Raistlin's existence, but it seemed more hostile than usual and tinted with an unmistakable hint of fear; Goldmoon stood slightly ahead of him, as if she had taken a step closer to Raistlin before faltering to a halt, a look of concern and compassion gracing the healer's features; Tika looked distressed, more likely a reaction to Caramon's evident concern than any concern of her own; Gilthanas looked intrigued, as if trying to puzzle out some vague suspicion, and Laurana was obviously confused and not a little distressed by the silence; Sturm was staring unblinking at him, his face a mask, indecipherable but obviously concealing a storm of strong, and likely conflicting, emotions; Flint's face had taken on the soft, paternal expression he had trotted out a few times when Raistlin, Caramon and Sturm had been young, all of them friendly and together in Solace, and which Raistlin had thought never to see again. But it was Tanis' face that carved a sigil of fear deep in the caverns of his heart: the half-elf's fine features were stricken with fear and concern, but, worst of all, his face was stained with pity. Raistlin didn't want the pity, didn't want to consider what it might mean, so he gave himself over to the constant mainstay of his – sometimes questionable – sanity: irritation.

"What?" Raistlin tried to infuse the single word with as much annoyance and sneering cruelty as possible, but what came out was a hoarse, almost plaintive whisper. The world decided at that moment to take up the ballet, spinning around him with such alacrity that he had to close his eyes once more and sink against the wall for support. Caramon's grip tightened on his shoulders and Raistlin used the pain as an anchor, fixing the battered boat of his mind firmly in the waters of consciousness.

"Raist - " Caramon's voice seemed just as hoarse as his own and the fear in his eyes was translating itself into tears, the emotion's intensity such that it needed to be expelled into the realm of the physical. At the sound, Raistlin opened his eyes, timidly, and found the world settled once more. Tanis had advanced a step towards them, gathering up the force of the concern and fear echoing silently in the cave, becoming the focal point of the group's attention on him, and giving it all voice. Raistlin felt like laughing at him all of the sudden.

"Raistlin," the half-elf cleared his throat and raised his voice from the hush it had assumed. "Raistlin, you looked just like your mother."

Raistlin felt his eyes widen at that before his mind clamped down. Everything just shut down, his emotional reaction, his ability to process the statement, the memories – all shunted off to the side in favour of his immediate survival instincts. It was exactly how he felt in the moments before stepping into an engagement, everything evaporating that wasn't his spells, his magic, his instincts. And he let it happen, knowing it was the way to get through this. Maybe not the best way, maybe not the easiest way, maybe not the preferable way – but it was his way, and his mind had launched his counter-attack before he had time to really consider it.

"And you look like a rusty spoke with that beard, half-elven. The rest of us can only pray that the snow melting on your head doesn't encourage the thing to grow further; or, worse, the snow might leak into your ears and rust the remnants of that pitiful hunk of steel rattling around your skull that you call a mind. I'm not quite sure whether I should pray to avoid that contingency, or encourage it – it might well put us all out of our misery." The silence adopted a ringing shock, as if it had just been slapped. It wasn't the best instance of ridicule Raistlin had ever come up with, but it was sharp enough to whet his tongue and startle the others out of their staring. Sturm looked livid and Raistlin – opportunistic to the core – fixed him with a malevolent grin. That got a reaction.

"Raistlin! What do you think you're - " Raistlin cut off his angry blustering with a haughty tilt of the head and turned his attention to Caramon. His brother seemed to have been dreading that and wilted immediately under his glare, looking down at his feet, mumbling something that sounded like his name. Raistlin ignored it.

"Now, my dear brother, might you please remove your hands before you crush the already pitiful excuses for lungs that I possess?" Raistlin couldn't keep the smile off his face even as he sneered the words out in his rasping malevolent tone. The smile worried him, setting off a whispered warning somewhere in the depths of his mind, evidence of how close he was coming to hysterics. But Caramon removed his hands and Raistlin could feel mounting anger and hostility heating the cave better than a bonfire – and it was all directed at him. Perfect. Things had gone better than he could have hoped.

With a silent prayer to no one in particular, Raistlin pushed himself away from the wall and steadied himself after a moment of difficulty and a flashing fear that he might not be able to catch himself after all. The action warmed him, sending a shot of adrenaline singing through his veins, and he felt a nervous energy thrumming through his limbs. He could do anything like this: anything.

"Now, have we figured out the food and fire situation yet?" Raistlin surveyed the faces fixed on him and smiled knowingly, as condescending as he could marshal himself to be. "No? Well, as I don't intend to sit here slowly turning into an ice block, we'll have to address the issue of the fire first."

Tanis seemed to rouse himself from his stunned stupor at that.

"Look, Raistlin, we can't have a fire! There's no fuel, no wood, nothing! The best we can hope for is some dried rations, if there are any left!" Tanis was flustered, and that was making him angry. Or was he angry, and that anger causing him to become flustered? Raistlin shoved the thought away, and focused on driving back the choking panic that he could feel blurring the edges of his consciousness. Hysteria was not something he was going to succumb to in front of this pack of fools. Raistlin allowed his smirk to take on a crooked smugness.

"Hm. It's a good thing you have me here with you, isn't it?" He left Tanis floundering like a fish and strode – such as he could – to the approximate centre of the cave. He nudged Gilthanas and Lauranna out of the way with a foot and worried a stub of chalk out of one of the pockets sewn into his right sleeve. He knelt and drew a circle on the rock, the stub rising and falling on the bumps and cracks of the cave floor. When he was satisfied with the circle, he rose, took a step back and closed his eyes. He didn't have a spell in mind, hadn't managed to study his spell books in two days at least and he wasn't certain there was an appropriate spell in the books in his possession anyway. It wasn't a spell he was conjuring up in his mind, it was the whisper of a presence. He prodded it, roused it from its semi-slumberous state and faced it, energy roiling in his stomach and tumbling from his skin in waves. It regarded him slowly, measuring him, before speaking.

 _"_ _What is it you want of me, young mage?"_ The voice, thin and cold like frozen pins dragged across skin, should have brought Raistlin up short, inspiring him with a leaden dread and a remembered fear, just as it always had before. But this time it did not. Raistlin stood before it, eyes dripping challenge, and answered:

 _"_ _Help me direct some of my power to light a fire of rock."_

The presence regarded him for a moment, seeming to consider, beyond the request, the hundreds of twisting implications attached to it and strewn out behind it like the legs of an insect. Whatever it found, it was sufficient. Raistlin had known it would be. The presence nodded and came to stand next to Raistlin, within his mind. Together, they delved deep into a well of magic Raistlin had never completely sounded before, a mine of reserves that he had never called upon, not even on the threshold of death's door. Raistlin shaped his magic into an arrow, gold fingers wrapped around gold energy, before handing it to the presence, knowing himself nowhere near adept enough to fine tune the magic to the manipulation of nature to the extent he wished.

The presence ran its black fingers in a sketching motion over the bolt of magic, humming to itself in a language Raistlin recognized but couldn't quite make out. With a surge of certainty, the golden energy burst into blue flame and the presence handed it back to Raistlin. They stood regarding each other for a moment longer, something nascent and indescribable passing between them, before the presence bowed and retreated.

Raistlin turned to his task.

Without saying a word, without calling a memorized spell to mind, Raistlin aimed the magic with his mind and shot it into the very centre of the chalk target he had drawn himself. The bolt buried itself in the rock of the cave floor and, hesitantly at first but with growing strength, fingers of flame flickered up from the rock, growing taller and spreading wider until the flame filled the circle, not passing the chalk bounds that had been set for it.

Ignoring the wave of exhaustion that seemed to emanate from the very marrow of his bones, Raistlin turned to the awe-struck, gaping fools that he had for an audience. The smile had never left his face.

"So," he said, a rush of satisfaction sweeping through him as every face turned to him immediately. "Shall we pass on to the issue of food?"


	2. Chapter 2

The issue of food was not quite as easily addressed as the issue of fire. Raistlin snorted at that thought – as if the fire had been _easily_ acquired – and he shifted his body closer to the raging, impossible flames he had given rise to. With an uneasy sense of certainty, Raistlin had a feeling that what he had done – whatever it was he had done – to call up the flames they all huddled around was not over. It was one of those actions that resounded, marking ripples on the waters of reality; it was one of those actions that had consequences. But before he had a chance to pursue that flitting feeling farther into his tired mind, Flint decided it was high time to break the silence that had fallen over the group after Raistlin had – still basking in the literal and metaphorical glow of his magical fire – requested a moment to recuperate before moving on to their next problem.

"Well, well. This is quite… cozy. Bet not a one of us expected to be warmed through tonight." Flint, whether as a result of his age or his being a dwarf or some more inchoate idiosyncrasy, had the gift of – almost – always sounding confident and sincere in his speech. But, no matter the customary bluster of the dwarf's voice, it was obvious that he was unsure quite how to deal with the situation. Raistlin had no doubt that the others – those intelligent and alert enough to bother thinking the situation through – were facing similar dilemmas: should they just accept the fire that was thawing their frozen fingers and hope that food would be as magically forthcoming, or should they confront Raistlin and question the source of this sudden power?

Raistlin suppressed a smirk and stretched shaking fingers closer to the dancing flames. He rather enjoyed knowing he had caused his companions such distress; he knew himself for a vindictive, mischievous person, and was prepared to put his pleasure down as yet another manifestation of his rather wide cruel streak. It wasn't quite the truth, though. And, by the cruelty of chance, Caramon seemed to pick up on the disturbance that that thought caused him.

"Hey, Raist, are you okay? Are you still cold? Cause I could – " Raistlin turned and gave him a look, replete with raised eyebrow and downturned mouth, effectively ending any ill-advised offer Caramon was about to extend.

"I am perfectly fine, brother. In fact, given the amount of times your stomach's growling has jolted me out of my thoughts in the last few minutes, I suppose we should deal with our lamentable lack of sustenance." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Raistlin regretted them. The frustrating reality was that he wasn't sure how to procure them food – of any sort. The packs, despite the disgustingly unshakable optimism of Goldmoon and Tanis, had been rifled through by at least three pairs of hungry hands and had turned out to be completely empty of anything edible, soggy or otherwise. Raistlin had considered using magic to somehow conjure them up some food, but he had abandoned the thought almost immediately: it would definitely require recourse to the presence in his mind – something he was not at all prepared to do – and Raistlin had read too much of the inevitable consequences of bending Nature's rules too far to be so foolhardy as to test her will. Nature had tolerance, but Nature also had a temper: Raistlin feared pushing his luck by attempting to create a four-course meal out of thin air after his rather unnaturally inflammatory rock-fire.

There was a balance to be respected.

But as Caramon's gut grumbled obnoxiously and all eyes turned expectantly to fix on him, Raistlin knew that wasn't going to be enough. He had managed to scramble away from the precarious edge in his mind and avoid succumbing to hysterics in front of his companions – he most certainly wasn't going to bow to defeat before them either. And then there was the whole point of his somewhat ostentatious display: the need for distraction. He couldn't let their minds drift back to his lapse, the moment when he – when he had looked like –

Raistlin stood in a swirl of red and gold, letting his mind flood with nervous energy and defiant annoyance. Sweeping his eyes over the upturned faces, lit in warm orange light that still managed to look otherworldly despite being normal in every respect aside from its origin, Raistlin allowed himself to sneer at them, to feel loftiness seep through his veins, to look down at the hope in their eyes and scoff at their optimism and at their helplessness. He was a _mage_ , and they were not. After all Sturm's protestations of being hostile to sorcery on principle, he still tilted his head up to look at Raistlin, hope and anticipation as plain on his face as on any of the others; after all Caramon's constant boorish attempts to help Raistlin, drawing unwelcome attention to his physical infirmities and frailties, he was just as useless in this situation as Raistlin would be in a crop at harvest time with only a scythe and his wasted body to aid him; after all Tanis' subtle reservations, his cringing and his distrust, the fearless leader was now sitting at his feet, looking to him in deference to his power.

Looking down at them, Raistlin let himself feel superior. And it was enough to spur his mind into action.

"Sturm, I shall require your aid in this." Raistlin directed his words to the first person his eyes focused on, infusing his voice with the kind of impersonal authority he knew would appeal to the knight. It was a gamble, testing the knight's tenuous acceptance of magic and Raistlin himself, but Raistlin was in a gambling mood, his mind buoyed on the high tide of energy and emotion he had deliberately given himself over to. He waited, face a shimmering mask of expectation.

Sturm grimaced at hearing himself singled out by Raistlin's rasp, an expression that quickly morphed into a scowl at the realization that Raistlin was asking him – a Solamnic knight – to participate in his workings, whether magical in nature or otherwise, but undoubtedly summarily nefarious in the knight's mind. Sturm glared, rising slowly to his feet with a creak of protesting armour and joints, dripping noticeably as he faced Raistlin. The others watched with bated breath, none seeming at all inclined to step between them. Cowards, Raistlin thought spitefully before pausing and revising the thought to: shameless voyeurs. The revision was no less spiteful, but it was certainly more amused. Raistlin watched the knight without allowing his expression to change in the slightest, arms crossed before him and posture exuding a cold confidence Raistlin knew wouldn't stand up to scrutiny. So Raistlin didn't scrutinize it.

Judging by the increasingly stormy look of the scowl twisting the knight's features, Raistlin was certain Sturm wasn't scrutinizing the depth of his confidence either, only the depth of that confidence's insult to his honour as a knight. Opening his mouth, Sturm seemed set on spitting out a rejection, of both the mage's presumptuous request and the mage himself, as he had done countless times in the past. Raistlin prepared himself to throw a cutting, but dismissive, comment back at the knight in response and turn his request on the much surer alternative that was Caramon.

But the knight's mouth closed without his having spoken a word. Blinking, Sturm seemed to consider something, eyes fixed on Raistlin's face. Though startled by this break in the usual pattern of the knight's behaviour, Raistlin kept his expression fixed in its outward calm and his eyes fixed on Sturm's face. The knight searched Raistlin for a few leaden seconds, seeming more focused on some inward debacle than what he was seeing, before opening his mouth once more, his expression this time unreadable.

"What is it you need me to do?" Sturm's question hung in the silence, unexpected and unprecedented. There was some reluctance in the knight's tone, but it was largely neutral, something that rung oddly in Raistlin's ear, accustomed as it was to hostility or at least open opposition lacing Sturm's words when they were addressed to him. A moment trickled past in silence, Raistlin sharing in the initial shock before tucking his surprise and confusion away, slipping smoothly back into his aura of confidence, a guise meant to trick not only his audience but also himself.

"I will need you to gather me some snow. Given our location, I doubt the task will exceed your meagre wit, but please let me know if you will require a partner." Raistlin smirked at the offense on the knight's face, whether it was in response to being given such a menial task or at his jab, Raistlin didn't know or care. He left the circle of illumination afforded by the fire and retrieved one of Caramon's many packs, the warrior acting as the group's pack horse, and shook the largest pot surviving amongst their supplies out of the battered leather. This he unceremoniously shoved into the knight's hands, his smirk widening into a grin as Sturm's expression of offense intensified, bordering now on outrage.

"Fill this to the brim with snow." Sturm stared dangerously at the curt instruction, but contained himself – though only just – and stalked off to carry it out as Raistlin waved his hand in dismissal. Returning to the fire, Raistlin slipped his hands surreptitiously into his sleeves, counting hidden pockets until he found the one he was looking for. Raistlin promptly scooped out the pocket's contents – a handful of leafy herbs – and piled them neatly on the ground in front of the fire. Caramon and Tika looked over his shoulder curiously and conversations began to start up around him, but Raistlin didn't acknowledge them, hands returning to his sleeves. One by one, Raistlin single-mindedly retrieved as many edible spell components as he could recall as being in his possession – spices, flower petals, leaves, herbs, minerals, everything – and arrayed them on the ground before him in distinctly organized piles. The process was methodical, mechanical, reminding Raistlin of taking inventory of the stores at the mage school back in Solace, a mind-numbing, time-consuming job that had always been foisted on him as a result of the other students' – and Master Theobald's – laziness. But now, unlike when he was in school, Raistlin clung to the mindlessness of the task, reveling in it as he held onto it like a lifeline.

When Sturm returned, armour no longer dripping but once again frosted and snowy, Raistlin was hesitating at the mushrooms he held, uncertain whether they could quite be categorized as edible – or even safe. Tanis was the one who jolted Raistlin from his thoughts, clearing his throat pointedly. Raistlin looked up and carefully took in the sight before him: Sturm standing, wet and dejected, full pot of snow in hand, and the others looking uncertainly from him to Raistlin and back again. Laughter threatened, but Raistlin beat it down and merely let a mocking irritation shine clear in his tone.

"I had thought it would be obvious, but clearly I should have been less optimistic." Raistlin rose from his crouch and inspected Sturm's snow, humming with approval, and motioned to Caramon. The man clambered to his feet, eager as always to help his brother, and rushed over. Raistlin gestured wordlessly for Caramon to take the pot and smirked as Caramon stared at it curiously for a moment – as if some delectable meal were about to burst out of the monotonous frozen white – then up at Raistlin questioningly.

"I'll have to ask you to position the pot over the fire, if you wish to have anything to eat in the next hour or two." Raistlin spoke slowly and pointed to the fire, resigning himself to having to outline each step of this in detail. It was possibly just exhaustion that was making the fools so slow tonight, but somehow Raistlin doubted it. They were always slow, and Raistlin had little hope of that ever changing.

Frightening that the hopes of Krynn rested on such dim-witted shoulders.

After assuring himself that Caramon had the task of melting the snow and bringing the resultant water to boil in hand, Raistlin returned to his ingredients. Though originally intended as spell components or medicinal supplies, combined in the right mixture, they had the potential to give rise to, at the very least, a benign and vaguely nutritional meal. Well, soup. Thin soup. But a meal all the same. Raistlin spent the time it took for the snow to make the rather lengthy transition to boiling water picking which ingredients to use. As a soup made from every edible substance Raistlin possessed thrown together would inevitably be a repugnant sludge, he tried to be strategic, calling to mind every recipe he had ever come across or cooked up himself in a pinch. While he had never exactly given cuisine any lengthy amount of study, Raistlin had become the de facto chef for himself and his brother when they were on their own or journeying or wherever, mostly because Caramon showed no aptitude whatsoever – the dishes he had prepared prompting Raistlin to believe that Caramon's efforts might actually be more averse to their health than starvation – but also because Raistlin had something of a knack. Cooking was like magic, in that it took a certain finesse to produce something that was both edible and appealing to the senses, especially when working with limited supplies. Raistlin looked down at his piles and removed the coriander. There would never be a time when he wasn't working with limited supplies.

A lull in the conversation buzzing about him and a triumphant note in Caramon's incessant jabbering brought Raistlin's head up. The water had come to a boil much faster than Raistlin had imagined, much faster than was altogether natural, but Raistlin decided it wasn't worth the worry. Snow brought to a boil unnaturally quickly by an unnatural flame – hopefully two negatives made a positive in this case. Raistlin looked down at the five piles he had selected, carefully marking each in his mind to be replaced at the earliest opportunity, before gathering them up and dumping them into the bubbling liquid. Taking the stained wooden spoon from Caramon's hand, he stirred the water, watching as his selections tinted the water in a coalescing gradient – first yellow, then blue, then purple – and tried to block out the incipient whisper that started up in the recesses of his mind like an autumn wind.

Raistlin gripped the spoon handle until his knuckles went from gold to a jaundiced white, his teeth clenching as he bolstered his defenses against the prodding _something_ lurking behind his conscious thoughts. Conversations continued around him, no one remarking his distress, but Raistlin was too focused to even feel relief. He would not allow anything to shake him, not now, not after – not now.

But the whisper didn't try to assail his defenses, the autumn wind not rising into a gale. Whatever it was, it wasn't trying to fight him. It wasn't trying to fight its way in. Hesitantly, stumbling on the thought that it might be a trick, Raistlin lowered the walls around his thoughts and reached out to the whisper. Nonetheless, it took him a moment to quell his trepidation to a point where he could actually decipher what the whisper was trying to convey.

 _Mint_.

Mint. The grand threat to his psyche was a culinary suggestion. Raistlin snorted – he was actually running at shadows in his own mind, shielding himself against his own thoughts – and accidently drew Caramon's attention back to himself with the noise. And with Caramon's attention came those of his interlocutors, Tika – inevitably – and Sturm – unfortunately. Raistlin kept his eyes on the pot and feigned unconcern, feeling amongst his pouches for the troublesome herb. Pulling out a handful – mint was extremely useful, both in magic and the healing arts – he let the mint fall through his fingers and into his concoction like leaves from a tree in fall. Considering the state of his bony fingers, it wasn't hard to imagine them as the skeletal limbs of a tree in winter once the mint had all fallen. If the tree were golden. And rotting at a cursed pace. Raistlin felt his unconcerned smirk falter and quickly raised a spoonful of the liquid to his mouth, blowing on it in a cursory manner, and sipping at it.

The mint made all the difference. Finesse, it was a gift.

"Alright, I believe it is ready," Raistlin brandished the damp wooden spoon out in front of him like a sword at the mad scramble that was his only response, everyone getting to their feet and descending upon him at once like a pack of vultures. It took a moment, but his glare managed to cut through their excitement, like acid through linen, and restored some semblance of order around the fire. Raistlin placed his thin body between them and the pot, guarding it as jealously as any dragon. Dragon. Dragon – a thought that made him think – of ash falling on –

"Well, well, we're all tremendously excited now, aren't we?" Raistlin threw himself into the present with a vengeance, fleeing the associations that were growing in his mind, threading through his walls like weeds and weakening the stone at their foundations. "As amazing as I'm sure my soup is, and as understandable as your excitement is given the fact that it is _I_ that has prepared it, I shall have to ask you to remain calm and orderly." Gilthanas looked like he was a mere breath away from apoplexy at the condescension dripping from Raistlin's voice, and Raistlin knew without looking that Laurana and Sturm were likely in similar states, but he let the offense of the haughtiest of the group fuel his energy rather than cause him to question it.

"Now, as I'm sure you've already remarked, we have five bowls and eleven aspiring diners. Which poses something of a problem." The dawning dismay on the faces closest to him told him quite clearly that none of them had yet remarked on that little detail. Raistlin barely restrained himself from sighing.

"The easiest solution to said problem would be to eat in turns, five at a time. The alternative being a fight to the death. Either way, it's your decision." At that, Tanis belatedly recalled himself and his supposed role as leader. The half-elf shook off the exhaustion that hung about his person like a pall and stepped up beside Raistlin, who did his best not to flinch away from the sudden proximity.

"Raistlin is right, we'll have to take this in turns if we're going to get anywhere at all." Tanis scanned the group gathered in front of them and began nodding. "Tika, Laurana, Goldmoon, Tas, and Raistlin – you'll take the first turn and the rest of us will wait."

"Ah, so the weakest go first. Very tactful, Tanis, I'm sure the ladies will appreciate such chivalry," Raistlin snapped sarcastically, watching as Tika's face morphed from an expression of relief to one of indignation. Tanis shot him an exasperated look and held up his hand in a placating gesture.

"You know that's not what I meant! It's just – we might as well – just – " Tanis searched the faces before him pleadingly, seeming to hope they would accept his earnestness by his expression alone. Goldmoon, of course, stepped up to take the situation in hand, haloed by her aura of firm calm.

"I think we all know Tanis' heart and that such an assumption was not what motivated his decision," Goldmoon's voice was as calm and smooth as her demeanor. "Moreover, I doubt any of us are inclined to contest this decision." It was almost a question, certainly a challenge. Raistlin saw Tika's face relax and her head shake almost imperceptibly – no, she would not contest it. None of them would, and Raistlin couldn't fault them for it: he knew they really had no reason to.

Except him.

"I contest it. Someone else can have my turn, it's not as if there's any dearth of choice. You all look like the living dead," Raistlin turned his eyes on Sturm and added, unable to resist, "Well, living in the loosest sense of the term…" Sturm's ever-present scowl darkened and, perversely, Raistlin felt his heart lift.

"You're one to talk, mage. You're more dead than alive and always will be." Sturm's words drifted to him in a whisper and Raistlin felt something plummet within him at the truth he doubted Sturm even realized he spoke. The silence dragged on just a little too long, Raistlin standing frozen, and Sturm shifted nervously, as if he regretted his words. Raistlin smiled at that and felt his paralysis shatter: as if Sturm would ever regret insulting him.

"That is very true, knight, I'm proud of you for finally showing some degree of perception," Raistlin kept his tone safely sneering, not that that was a difficult task looking at the knight's ridiculous face and ridiculous moustache. "I suggest you give my bowl to Riverwind – I'm sure he'd like to test my concoction for poison before his beloved digs in." Raistlin realized after a moment that, like as not, more than just Riverwind would be leery of poison in a meal he had prepared. He pushed the thought aside and shook his head. They could believe whatever they liked.

Tanis looked at him oddly and Caramon looked ready to protest as noisily as usual. But Flint beat them both to the punch.

"You should eat something, Raistlin. You made all this, after all." Opening his mouth, Raistlin realized he didn't have a retort, sarcastic, cutting, or otherwise. He could feel his energy draining from him, as tangible an abandonment as one of those fabled tides drawing back from a shore at the call of the moons. But, unlike the tides – a curiosity he had once read about in a history book – Raistlin was not at all sure the ebb would be balanced by a returning flow at any time in the near future. He met Flint's eyes with effort and grasped at whatever response came to him.

"Exactly. I did make it, and you should know that it is ill-luck for a mage to partake of his own potions." Raistlin couldn't hold back a breathy laugh when Sturm blanched at his use of the term 'potion.' He sobered as Caramon took a step towards him, obviously preparing to say something both useless and irritating, and turned to Tanis, handing him the spoon.

"I'm not hungry." Raistlin hadn't meant to say it out loud. He hadn't meant to let his creeping lassitude show so clearly in his voice. But at that moment, he couldn't quite bring himself to care. He turned and left the light of the fire, finding the sight of the orange tongues of flame suddenly tiring – something he couldn't afford when he had no energy left to spare.

Setting his back against the cold stone and shrouding himself in fitful shadow, Raistlin watched Tanis doling out his improvised soup and tried to keep himself from falling asleep.

For with sleep would come dreams, and with dreams would come danger.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey everyone, sorry this chapter has taken so long, but I recently got rather busy, rather unexpectedly. Hope you enjoy nonetheless.**

For want of a better distraction, Raistlin closed his eyes and listened.

Outside the circle of warmth and relative gaiety – though Rasitlin preferred to think of it as relative foolery, given the group occupying that space – of the fire, he had at first set himself to looking inward: he began with a silent inventory of the spell components he had recently rifled through, then passed on to a grimmer inventory of the various aches and pains blooming both on the surface of his skin and beneath it, trying to ascertain their approximate severity without moving or investigating any further than a gentle mental probing.

He was being cautious. He didn't want to draw attention to himself – the last thing he needed at this particular moment was the grating mistrust and questioning glances of any of the companions. Especially Caramon. Raistlin felt a brief stirring of humour writhe somewhere in his mind as he thought – not for the first time – that he would far rather face one of Sturm's raging, unreasoning furies against him and his magic than any of Caramon's fumbling, heavy-handed attempts at fraternal support. Wouldn't Sturm be shocked if he ever figured that out? Raistlin chuckled silently: Sturm would find a way to twist that shock into anger, though. He would cite his eternal – Solamnic, of course – opposition to Raistlin's ingratitude to Caramon as an outrage against familial loyalty and draw his sword, advancing on Raistlin in a most menacing jangle of rusty armour. In fact, Raistlin was rather convinced that such was Sturm's primary skill – using honour to justify anger.

In such a manner, Raistlin allowed his thoughts to drift, letting them light on whatever they pleased while ensuring they remained active enough to keep them from drifting too far and slipping into the passivity of sleep. If Raistlin knew anything, he knew sleep, especially now, would be disastrous. So, as the string of insults his mind was conjuring up against Sturm slowly began to unravel into formlessness, Raistlin marshalled his thoughts once again and directed them to the altogether more productive task of going over the few spells that remained graven in his memory since his last session with his spell books. There were about ten important, multi-purpose spells carved into the forefront of his mind, edges beginning to wear slightly with the passage of time, bolstered by a fair number of alternate, emergency, and last-resort spells floating about in the background. It was on these ten, the beginnings of disrepair creeping into visibility, that Raistlin focused his energies. Narrowing his focus, Raistlin selected the spell that had suffered the most by his neglect and immersed himself in it.

It was an invisibility spell, an elegant manipulation of light. Interesting – Raistlin had yet to cast an invisibility spell in earnest, on anything larger than a pen or his forefinger, but the possible benefits of such a spell performed on a large scale were almost paradoxically obvious. It could be used in battle as a means of throwing an enemy into confusion or of covering a retreat; it could be used in an escape attempt as a means of creeping past guards or through the corridors of a prison unseen; it could be used in a stealth mission as a means of gathering information or a prized artifact… it could be used to Raistlin's personal benefit as a means to further his own interests without the knowledge of the others. His interests were not always the same as those of the companions. Raistlin gathered the memory of reading the spell from one of his books about him and allowed his inner ear to attune itself to this particular spell's song.

He set to work. Ghostly, imaginary fingers of magic delved into the worn edges of the runes and clawed along fading lines, retracing them, resetting them. Reviving them. Raistlin concentrated on maintaining the essence of the spell unchanged as he repaired the damage to the memory, pausing and shifting the course of the restorative magic when the pitch of the spell's reverberating hum changed too drastically. Such work required a delicate hand. When the spell was almost completely restored in his mind and he was sure of his success, Raistlin allowed himself to imagine Caramon trying something like this, his massive, callused hands attempting such a fine action, such a delicate manipulation, requiring such a degree of patience and caution. A sharp sense of malicious elation flooded him. Caramon couldn't even imagine such a task as Raistlin had just accomplished; Caramon had no grasp at all of the nuances Raistlin lived; Caramon was not, would never be, _could_ never be a mage. Never his equal in magic. In intelligence.

Just as Raistlin was not, would never be, could never be Caramon's equal in everything else.

Raistlin felt his elation evaporate. It left very little in its wake but a vacuum. With a growing sense of desperation that Raistlin couldn't seem to convince himself not to feel, he tried to deny the thought that had brought this on. He tried to scoff at its melodrama, tried to cast it behind him and dismiss it as an idle product of his exhaustion. But there was a deep silence blanketing his mind, a dark, muffling stillness, and Raistlin's thoughts seemed to enter that expanse and die there, as if they had been snuffed out, denatured and dispersed. All without a sound. There could be no denial in this silence. There could be no fight.

A laugh, a silent one, teased along the edges of Raistlin's awareness, somehow within the black stillness, entangled within it, yet still whole. Still cruel. The laughter was one with the silence, of it, but it still managed to tickle Raistlin's consciousness and mock him. The laughter was directed toward him, it laughed at him. Laughter was laughing at him. Raistlin tried to get his bearings and push past the delirious sense of confusion in that blackness. The laughter was on all sides now, encircling him. It was soundless, and yet it was dry and cold, like ice scratching on ice.

It was the presence. The presence was laughing at him. On all sides, like the ash falling from the sky…

And, with a violent shock, Raistlin was suddenly plunged deep into the very thing he had been dreading.

 _Ash that was almost blue in its grey pallor, like the cooling flesh of a corpse, was falling thick from the sky. It didn't seem to have any source at first, swirling through the air from every direction, seeming much like snow as it fell soft and soundless. But, as it slowly cloaked the swaying stalks of golden grain, it was evident that it could not be snow. Snow at harvest. Snow…_

 _In the deep silence, a shivering sense of recent cataclysm hung in the air. The world was soaked in the gaping, mindless silence of that second that succeeded a storm of chaos and noise and violence. It was the second that followed disaster, and it seemed to have no end._

 _The world of ash and soundlessness shifted away from the grain, turning to a field of rubble and guttering flame. The ruined remains of walls and chimneys and roofs blended together in a motionless sea of dust and stone, edges frosted with the falling ash. All was charred and smoke rose in a wall of murky black. It looked – dead. If stone and brick could look dead. Something had killed this village._

 _Ash fell from the sky; smoke rose to meet it. Flames crept welcome through dead stone; silence crept welcome through the dead air above._

 _There were bodies under the rubble. Not lives, not people – there were bodies buried under the rubble. There were bodies scattered all around the town too, forming an irregular circle of twisted limbs and wretched waste, none allowed to escape. They were charred too, the bodies. Fingers and hair singed, blackened. Faces scorched, rendered expressionless by the heat of the onslaught that felled them._

 _There was one that had made it farther than any of the others, likely making for the grain, likely hoping it would be enough of a concealment. But escape was not an option. The body was a black mass, hair consumed by flame, skin wrinkled and tough – inhuman now, all that was human burned away in attempting to survive that impossible heat. Inhuman now, more kin to firewood and charcoal than flesh and blood, but once a child. Once a girl, quick and clever, fastest girl in the town; she had loved to race with her friends, sometimes winning, sometimes letting them win. Once a girl who loved to see the horses in her father's field prance and imagine herself running with them, fast and free –_

Raistlin gathered himself to himself and launched away from the vision that held his soul in its elemental, unforgiving grip. An unknowable amount of time passed before Raistlin had erected new walls, ensconced himself within them, and felt the immediate fear of slipping out of his own control and into the vision pass. Then, just as both his mental and physical bodies began shivering with the fading adrenaline, a more insidious fear introduced itself – the damage was already done. He had already seen; and he had seen too much, for too long. The fear and the thoughts chased themselves around his little enclosure of walls and self, but they neither grew nor diminished nor altered in any real way, threatening or otherwise. It was a moment of anxious calm.

So, for want of a better distraction, Raistlin huddled within the walls, closed his eyes and listened. At first, he listened to the howl of the wind beyond the cave, the monotonous, unreasoning rage of the storm – but, after a long moment, the sound began to remind Raistlin of the horrible lack of sound that had reigned over that place of death and ruin, and the thought of the snow the wind whipped in its wake reminded him of the ash whirling on the soundless breeze.

A better distraction seemed to be in order. And, as Caramon's obnoxious guffaw forced its way into his attention by sheer force of volume, Raistlin resigned himself to eavesdropping on whatever inane conversation the companions managed to dredge up – it was a last resort, and Raistlin could only hope for the thousandth time since he had started out on this journey that stupidity wasn't catching.

"…actually quite good. Far better than I could have expected it to be." The great Tanis Half-eleven was speaking with his mouth full of food – that fact, paired with the fact that he also had a bit of soup dripping from his beard, made him an astonishing display of indignity. He appeared not to care a whit about his appearance, however, which Raistlin considered to be a great bit of good fortune: it meant the rest of them would be treated to the sight that much longer. Raistlin was finding the urge to make some remark, or at least snicker, rather difficult to suppress; apparently the companions made for better entertainment than a troupe of clowns.

"Yes, given the circumstances, I must say I'm impressed," Goldmoon sounded sincere, but Raistlin doubted she was capable of sounding otherwise. "Are you certain we shouldn't at least ask Raistlin to eat once more? There is enough left for another bowl." Raistlin forced his sigh to be as quiet as possible.

"Yeah, I agree with Goldmoon. I think I should at least try to take something to him." Caramon delivered his words around what were likely the last few mouthfuls of Tika's portion as well as his own. Tika was no fool – she knew the way to his heart.

"I don't know, Caramon. I think it might be better if we just let Raistlin rest. He seems like he needs it." Tanis' voice was quiet, as if he had just remembered Raistlin's presence not four feet away from them. 'Fool' was rapidly becoming the most frequently used word in Raistlin's vocabulary.

"Tanis is right." Raistlin wasn't the only one who was slightly flabbergasted to hear Sturm speak up, seemingly in his defense. What followed, mumbled with Sturm's signature petulance, made much more sense. "Let Raistlin stay in his corner – it's better than having him here, watching us eat and grinning."

"C'mon Sturm! Raistlin made this wonderful soup stuff for us, we should be grateful! We should definitely thank him for this when he wakes up… maybe you could do it, Sturm! You liked the soup, didn't you?" For once, Raistlin was distinctly glad for the kender's presence among the companions. He didn't think he'd ever seen Sturm's face turn that particular shade of green before. The knight opened and closed his mouth, looking for all the world like a massive apoplectic fish, casting about for an honorable means of unequivocally refusing to do any such thing.

Tanis was the one to take pity on him, though Riverwind looked suspiciously green in sympathy to Sturm's plight. "That is a good idea, Tas. Raistlin should hear our thanks – but I think he should hear it from me, rather than Sturm. I'm more accustomed to speaking for the group, and I'm pretty sure Raistlin and I would have a far more civil exchange than we could ever hope to see between Raistlin and Sturm." The ghost of a chuckle haunting the edges of the half-elf's words caused Raistlin's lips to curve in a slight smirk: maybe Tanis wasn't such a fool after all.

A soft but very audible snort sounded from the edge of the group, turning heads from Tanis to the hunched form of Gilthanas, sitting and shivering next to Laurana. The elf's arresting eyes were shadowed, both with the familiar – amongst the companions, at least – dull shade of exhaustion and a less familiar tinge of bitterness. This bitterness was made all the more obvious by the foil provided by the concern in Laurana's eyes, shining bright as she watched her brother, her posture both protective and wary at once as if she knew the source of Gilthanas' emotion and disagreed, but was not prepared to abandon him to bear the companions' scrutiny alone.

Raistlin had to admit, as he watched through narrowed eyes, he was intrigued.

Gilthanas' mouth curved into an inevitably graceful, yet surprisingly cruel, smile. "Yes, Tanis, take the lead on this too. As _leader_ of our venture, I'm sure you're very much so _accustomed_ to speaking for us all." The sneer in his voice was all the more striking in its complete absence of subtlety – Gilthanas wasn't bothering with diplomacy.

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" Sturm's voice was low, dark – Raistlin sighed to himself. Honour was involved in this situation, and Sturm had picked up on it immediately with the eager sensitivity of the obsessed. Though it was Tanis' honour that was being called into question by the sneer in Gilthanas' tone, Honour was being affronted, and, though Raistlin was quite sure Tanis' didn't care a whit if he was sneered at so long as he could keep the peace, Sturm had accepted Tanis as leader with his heart and soul: therefore, any attack on Tanis' honour was an attack on Sturm's honour and, given the Solamnic oath he quoted at every possible opportunity, an attack on Sturm's honour translated to an attack on his life and therefore had to be answered. Raistlin shook his head slightly to clear it – working through Sturm's twisted Solamnic logic always made his head hurt.

Gilthanas understood just as well as Raistlin all that weighed behind Sturm's question – more accurately termed a challenge – but his bitter gaze and cruel smile didn't waver in the slightest. "Oh, I was just questioning why our leader should be you; and why it should be you who is so accustomed to the role. What exactly did you achieve to make you worthy of leadership?" The smile was gone now, as was the sneer, deliberate provocation finished – but the bitterness remained. Gilthanas' expression was serious now, sober; but all that seemed to achieve was to increase the affront of his words.

Flint was next. "I would be careful with your words, lad. It isn't the time nor the place to have this out." The dwarf's tone was calm and non-threatening, but it was firm. Not that it was surprising that Flint would be amongst the foremost of Tanis' defenders – they were friends and had been since before Raistlin had been able to walk. It was not a question of honour, but of loyalty between the dwarf and half-elf. Gilthanas snorted once again, his eyes travelling from dwarf to Tanis with something like scorn. "I'm surely not to be considered the 'lad' of a dwarf – but, in a group that considers Tanis a leader, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

The firmness in Flint's voice had started the companions moving to sit nearer Tanis and the dwarf, putting the fire between them and Gilthanas. The elf's response only served to spur them on. They had gathered, by scuttling and scooting, to face Gilthanas as a united front. Raistlin searched their faces: he wondered if they even realized what they had done. Laurana looked distinctly uncomfortable, leaning slightly away from her brother and glancing nervously at the group facing them, but remained seated by Gilthanas' side, unwilling to leave him. Raistlin felt the urge to scoff at this choice: she was hopelessly outnumbered and obviously did not share Gilthanas' feelings, yet she remained staunchly at her brother's side, all despite his deliberate and utterly pointless provocation being the source of the situation. Yes, Raistlin felt the urge to scoff as a reflex reaction, but it quickly died as he thought, _Wouldn't Caramon do the same?_

Of course he would. His ox of a brother wasn't capable of _thinking_ about abandoning his twin, let alone siding with a hostile group outnumbering Raistlin. And Raistlin would count on that loyalty if he ever found himself in this kind of situation, if only as a means to keep the others from outright attacking him for love of Caramon. Raistlin told himself that it was different, that his relationship with Caramon was vastly different from Laurana's with Gilthanas, that his reasons were not comparable to Laurana and Gilthanas' reasons – and yet, try as he might, he couldn't quite bring himself to condemn Laurana's actions.

Tanis seemed to be belatedly realizing the polarizing effect the conversation had had on the companions, and Raistlin could practically see the succession of possible outcomes running through the half-elf's mind. Then, fear greasing the gears of his thoughts, Raistlin watched as Tanis stumbled through the possible means of avoiding those outcomes, defusing the situation, and placating the potential combatants. Eventually, Tanis turned his gaze on Gilthanas and addressed him in weary tones, "Gilthanas, can we not do this now? We've had a long trek, we need to rest, we don't need – "

"We don't need your questions. They are not wanted. They are not shared." The rumbling of Riverwind's rarely-heard voice interrupted whatever Sturm had been preparing to shout. Though Riverwind's voice was quiet, there was menace in his words that challenged Gilthanas to oppose him. Goldmoon's eyes snapped to Riverwind's face, surprise in her expression – though it was less pronounced than the surprise in Tanis'; her gaze quickly darted to Gilthanas' darkening face, then shifted to Tanis', as if looking for confirmation. Whatever she was looking for, she seemed to find it in the panicked stare levelled on her by the half-elf, and she turned to face Gilthanas, sealing the united front once again.

"I do not know what has brought this issue up, but I agree with Flint and Tanis: I suggest we end this now and wait for a more appropriate time. We can discuss things civilly then, when frustration and exhaustion are no longer weighing on us and clouding our judgement. If there is a difference of opinion amongst us, we must resolve that, but resolution of conflict can only be satisfying and lasting if it is effected by careful thought addressing the root of the problem, not emotion hacking blindly at the surface." Goldmoon exuded authority, her solicitude tempered by a hard edge of control shining like steel beneath her words and in her gaze. Raistlin was impressed: she had obviously been exposed to conflict as Chieftain's Daughter and was well aware what it was and how to deal with it. If there was to be any obstacle capable of arresting the escalation of this ridiculous standoff, it was the evident sense in her words.

Unfortunately, not everyone seemed to be in the mood for sense.

"I think we have put this off long enough. I believe my question to be a legitimate one: why should I follow _you_?" Gilthanas stood, his words directed unwaveringly at Tanis, as if none of the others made any difference at all to him. The sneer was back, and every word became an insult. The companions rose in response, Tanis reluctantly following suite when he realized his remaining sitting in protest was having absolutely no effect on anything other than making it even harder for him to regain control, hidden in a forest of legs.

And then, finally, it was Caramon's turn to speak up. "Hey! Tanis is a great leader! He's always there for us, he's gotten us out of more scrapes than you can imagine! He – you – He's our friend, I won't let you talk about him like this!" Caramon's massive hands were balled up in fists and his right was drifting perilously close to his sword, still at his side. Sturm was nodding, seeming to agree if not with Caramon's spluttering defense, then at least with his outrage. "Exactly. Tanis is our leader. He is also our friend. We will not allow you to question him or his honour in such a manner." Sturm's hand began to drift even more obviously toward his sword.

Raistlin took a moment to sigh – Honour had made its way out from skulking between the words into overtness, only a matter of time with Sturm involved – then another to grimace at Caramon's inability to communicate even the most simplistic of ideas without stumbling over his own tongue. Reflection on Caramon's poor capacity for speech led unerringly to the self-congratulatory thought that all of the brains allotted to the twins seemed to have made their way to Raistlin in the womb, a fact proven afresh every time Caramon opened his mouth. Cutting that line of thinking off – Raistlin could spend hours cataloguing the many instances that demonstrated the drastic disparity between his own intellect and his brother's – Raistlin spent a few seconds cursing every single one of the companions for being unable to provide a simple, mindless distraction when he needed it most. He had considered letting the inevitable scuffle play out – indeed, it could very well have proved better entertainment than the companions' prattle – but Raistlin knew a pitched battle in the cave could become needlessly dangerous: one or more of the companions might be seriously injured or even killed, making things more difficult for the rest, who would have to work that much harder to pull the incapacitated companions' weight; there would also be the issue of the excessive guilt and remorse the companions would likely feel even if the battle ended without any seriously wounded, let alone if they were to cause someone to die – they'd never be able to move past it emotionally, making them worse than useless; then there was the altogether probable possibility of Raistlin himself being drawn into the fray, needing to defend his brother from an untimely death – Raistlin was reluctantly aware that Caramon was still necessary to him – or his own person from the opportunism of the Solamnic knight, who would jump at the chance to wield his sword against Raistlin in the frenzied, uncontrolled heat of battle.

All of these perfectly rational reasons to intervene and end the fracas before it began ran through Raistlin's mind as he considered the situation before him, but none of them proved to be what propelled him to his feet with a groan and sent him stalking into the diminishing pool of magical firelight. It was the wrongness of the whole scene that did that. There was a twinge deep in Raistlin's gut that, beyond any reasoning, told him that he could not allow the companions to fight amongst themselves; that twinge of distress shrieked silently at him that it was fundamentally wrong that any of the companions come to harm at the hands of another, it would run contrary to every rule written in the wind, every impulse of destiny; the twinge dug into his body like the precursor to one of his blasted coughing fits and demanded he put a stop to it and set things back on course. The irony of his being the arbiter in a conflict between the companions was not lost on Raistlin, as he was usually the source of dissension and conflict in the ranks, but there was something – something distressingly like the ice-cold of the presence, like the hazed, numb feeling of the visions – that whispered without words that it didn't matter who he was or what he felt: he was the one at hand, he was the one to hear, so he was the one who would right the ship and keep things on their proper course. For if the course was not kept, there was no telling what would well up to fill the void of the unknown and congeal into a new path, nor what powers would reign over the new path –

These things occurred to Raistlin in wordless impulses and feelings, pushing him onwards and dealing him a comprehension that could not be communicated nor fully understood; but he did know one thing without a shadow of a doubt: he could not allow the companions to take up arms against each other.


	4. Chapter 4

Walking involved a contradictory swell of sensations: stepping into the vicinity of the fire had Raistlin wrapped in the welcoming warmth of light he himself had called up out of the sterile rock of the cave floor; however, this also meant stepping into the vicinity of the companions, which had Raistlin bombarded with the building storm of irate shouting, drowning, desperate, placating tones, and scraping metal that, when it broke, would pour forth not rain, but battle. Raistlin felt the tension of the fire-warmed air creep into his blood, and he gritted his teeth, his magic roiling restlessly beneath his skin in response to his growing anger. Raistlin walked the last few steps while taking deliberate, calming breaths: his anger was not his own, this fight was not his fight – it wasn't even the companions' fight, in truth. It was exhaustion's fight, pushing the fools to emotional extremes that had them grasping at trivialities for an excuse to take out their frustration on each other. Raistlin had no doubt that as soon as the first blow was struck in this, the united front the companions had formed against Gilthanas and Laurana would dissolve and leave them all in a chaotic melee, everyone fighting everyone else.

And the practical risks of such an idiotic contest easily outweighed the almost non-existent benefits. The only clear benefit that Raistlin could discern was the potential entertainment value, but sacrifices had to be made – especially when a gut-wrenching feeling of nauseating unease twisted deep within Raistlin at the thought of letting the fight unfold. That effectively cut the entertainment value of the fight in half.

Raistlin stopped, standing just beside the angry knot of companions, not a one of them sparing him a glance. Sturm, Caramon, Flint, and Riverwind were absorbed in their furious exclamations and their supposedly threatening posturing, the original source of the argument lost now in a stream of unrelated insults and accusations; Tanis and Goldmoon were struggling to be heard, holding out their hands and attempting – and failing quite spectacularly – to soothe the outrage; Tika seemed to alternate hyperactively between joining Caramon in the blatant outrage camp and seeing enough reason to join Tanis and Goldmoon in trying to defuse the situation, effectively rendering her a useless addition to either group in her constant defection; Tas was hopping from foot to foot, looking immensely excited by the clamour, yet there was a hint of concern in his face as well, an alien expression for a kender. Gilthanas was equally absorbed in holding up under the combined fury of four – sometimes five – warriors, answering their emotion quite readily with his own; Laurana, on the other hand, looked lost beside her brother, her eyes wide, and she immediately noticed Raistlin. She had obviously tried to calm her brother as Tanis and Goldmoon were trying to calm the others, but she had sense enough to realize when her efforts were going to waste, and she'd stopped, instead watching what had begun as a civil conversation about soup spiral out of control. The look she cast at Raistlin was bordering on panicked: she thought Raistlin had scented blood in the air from his corner of the cave and was here to make things worse.

Raistlin wished, watching the companions overlook him in favour of their puerile argument, that he could prove her right.

But, not having that luxury, he set himself to the task at hand. First, no matter what followed, the companions had to be distracted from their argument before it escalated beyond the point of no return. Raistlin, understanding immediately just how ineffectual standing to one side and politely calling for attention would be at this point, decided to fall back on his preferred method of introducing himself into a conversation: the dramatic entrance. Tanis had often referred to Raistlin's penchant for the dramatic with irritation, but Raistlin knew that, aside from being extremely gratifying to himself, drama was also a useful tool that could be employed with precision to obtain a particular outcome. In the present circumstance, Raistlin needed to shift the attention of the group out of the unreasoning cul-de-sac of pointless anger and, for want of a better alternative, onto himself – though the danger of such a shift was evident. The bloodlust of the group, in having its attention jolted away from the current fight, might just transition into focus on a new target – him. Raistlin would have to be careful; he would have to hope that his chosen course of action would surprise the companions enough to bank the fire of their anger, at least long enough for Raistlin to think up a means of extinguishing them entirely.

A breath and Raistlin waded into the fray. He placed himself in front of Sturm, the leader of the rage group, and suffered the dubious privilege of having the knight continue screaming nonsense against Gilthanas into his face before Sturm realized the view before him had changed. That was when the true pleasure of seeing confusion flood the rage in Sturm's eyes began, confusion caused by his sudden appearance, and Raistlin seized the momentary lull in momentum – the shouting around them stumbling to a stop – to run his hand along Sturm's upraised sword. He forced his movements to be deliberately languid despite the blood singing through his veins, acting as if the companions being at each other's throat bored him beyond measure. All could see Sturm's sword – it had been raised up by the knight, likely to act as a focus for their anger, or a rallying sign to lead their righteous assault against the insolent elf, or something similarly ridiculous – and all eyes were fixed, as if hypnotized, on Raistlin's hand as he traced up the blade with his fingers, moving towards the point. He moved his hand slowly, not speaking, letting the shock and confusion of the companions at the unexpected move wipe their minds of immediate thought and drain their bodies of frustrated emotion. His own eyes he kept locked on Sturm's, watching the knight's reaction for signs of returning anger – Raistlin was the first and easiest target if it did.

There. A trace of irritation leaked into the void of confusion in Sturm's wide eyes, a trace that was rapidly intensifying. Raistlin's time was up.

At that moment, his thin fingers reached the blade's sharp point and, unblinking, not releasing Sturm's gaze, Raistlin made a decision and removed his hand from the sword, stretched out his fingers, and impaled his palm on the point.

A gasp broke the stillness, sending a murmuring rippling through the companions – Raistlin was certain the gasp had not been his, he had not flinched. He had not even blinked, Sturm's pinched expression of shock told him that much. Not wasting a second, as the blood of his left hand trickled down his wrist, Raistlin spoke the words of one of the spells he had carefully set down in his memory. The sibilant words flowed from his lips, snaking into the air in the form of power, slinking and twisting among the companions to complete their purpose. Raistlin smiled as he felt the spell lock into place, his primary objective achieved, and jerked his hand off the end of Sturm's blade. He left the point bathed in red, a startlingly clean, clear contrast with the silver of the rest of the sword, and Sturm stared at it in something akin to fascination. The rest of the companions stared as well.

Then they were all staring at him.

Sturm's fascination, short-lived, was rapidly fading in favour of outrage directed at Raistlin, his sword shaking as the knight rounded on him. "What is this? What have you done, mage?" There was something brilliant and fevered glinting in Sturm's eye now, as was to be expected: Raistlin had polluted the ancestral blade of a Brightblade with his revolting mage blood.

Raistlin wasn't feeling particularly gracious toward the knight's Solamnic pretensions as his blood dripped unhindered from his hand to the floor.

"What did I do? I stopped you from making one of the largest, most idiotic mistakes of your life, knight." Raistlin glared back at him, not bothering to keep a wary attention on the others. They were no longer a threat.

"You have cast magic! You have cast it on me, on all of us here, on my blade… You will pay for this, mage!" Sturm's rage had returned full-force, just as unreasoning, just as blind, and redirected towards Raistlin as he had initially feared it would be – but Raistlin merely smiled. He spread his arms with a sweep of his robes – mostly for the benefit of his audience – and inclined his head to Sturm. He never let his eyes leave the knight's. "Please, Sturm Brightblade," Raistlin murmured in a soft voice, "if you feel the need to make me feel the error of my ways, I invite you to take this pointless indignation out on me rather than on your friends." And Raistlin waited, watching.

Sturm's fevered expression sharpened and he drew back his sword, wide eyes fixed on Raistlin's thin chest, somewhere in the region of his heart. "Sturm. Sturm! Don't!" Caramon was just catching on, and the others had started moving too. Tanis had launched himself at Sturm, trying to catch the knight's sword arm, and Flint was attempting the same. Goldmoon was watching wide-eyed, hand over her mouth. Raistlin's little display had managed to quell the anger in all of the companions by surprising them out of their focus – all but Sturm. But Raistlin had known this would be the case: Sturm never needed an excuse for anger. He waited.

Sturm shook off the efforts of Tanis and Flint and, before they could renew their attempt to stop him, Sturm plunged his sword forward, sure of his aim.

But the blade came to a sudden halt, wavering in the air in front of Raistlin. The slack-jawed look on the knight's face was priceless. The cave went still once more as all eyes returned to the sword. Raistlin smirked and flicked a finger carelessly against the edge of the frozen blade; he found it rather amusing, actually: Sturm's blade was rapidly receiving, in the space of mere minutes, more astonished attention than it had in its entire existence.

"Well, knight. It would seem I will not be dying today." Sturm stared at him, then at the blade, and back. Raistlin smiled innocently.

"What – what is this?" Sturm cautiously lowered his sword to his side, his voice hoarse, all anger ripped forcibly from it. Raistlin nodded in satisfaction. He had been rather certain that almost murdering an unarmed, if not friend, then at least companion, would be enough to jolt even Sturm into what passed for his senses. _Victory_ , Raistlin thought as dripping blood twined around his fingers on its journey to reach the floor.

" _This_ is the mage saving the lot of you from committing a grievous error." Raistlin raked his gaze over them all, including Gilthanas and Laurana, who had stumbled around the fire to join the others, the former looking contrite and confused. "I, peacefully attempting to rest, watched this farce for as long as I possibly could, hoping you would come to your senses and end this meaningless bickering by yourselves. But that didn't happen – not that I should be surprised. Instead, you drew weapons and began preparing for war against each other! Think about what a battle in this cave would have been, fueled by your rage. Bloody, pointless, and it would have ended in grief for you all and likely one or more of you lost." There was uncomfortable shifting and averted eyes at this. Even Caramon was silent, looking away instead of leaping to fuss over Raistlin's hand and support him in front of the companions. _They are children_ , Raistlin thought, staring at them. _Petulant children taking a scolding._

Raistlin brought his hand up and inspected the wound. It wasn't too deep; he hadn't become overly enthusiastic in the heat of the moment, at least.

"Now, by the look of you, you've realized your foolishness and will not repeat it in the near future. But, just in case, I have cast a spell stilling your weapons: you will be unable to raise them against each other for a time." Raistlin shifted his gaze to settle on Gilthanas. "And to answer the question ostensibly at the root of all this: Tanis is the leader and you follow him because you can't be the leader, and I can't be the leader, and none of the rest of you can be the leader other than Tanis. It is the way things are, and it is the way things are meant to be. If you're thirsting for proof of some kind, I invite you to try leading this merry band of fools for a day and you'll understand what I mean. Like rain always falling from the sky to meet the ground, some things must be the way they are." Raistlin swept his eyes over those in front of him once more, saw their averted eyes now fixed on him, hanging on his every word. He smiled at that – being at the centre of attention was where he belonged – despite the unease twisting subtly in his stomach at his own words.

He didn't let the unease show, however.

"But the question of leadership is not truly the reason for this little – altercation. You are all tired, you are all emotional, and you are having trouble coping with your frustration. You are conjuring up reasons to take this frustration out on each other." Raistlin held up his hand – the one that was still bleeding profusely, incidentally – and cut Sturm off before he could protest. "I am no cleric of Mishakal, but I have studied healing since I was a child, and I likely have a better grounding in the workings of the mind than the rest of you. Stress, frustration," Raistlin locked gazes with each of the companions as he spoke, "fear – all of these feelings can prompt a sense of helplessness and desperation, often an irrational need to act, and at the same time weaken judgement. Given that the lot of you weren't terribly skilled in the use of judgement before, strain has only worsened your control – and here we are." Raistlin spread his hands in a dramatic gesture, his robes flaring at his sides like wings. The robe was one of the best props Raistlin had ever used.

Tanis was staring at him blankly, eyes wide, face flushed, such that Raistlin was fairly certain he was in shock at having been teetering on the brink of battle only to be pulled neatly back again, and therefore not listening to a word he said. This was apparently not the case. Tanis, not taking his eyes off Raistlin, brought a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat.

"Alright, Raistlin. I think we take your point. What – what do you suggest we do about it?" Tanis seemed uncertain of himself, and while that wasn't any different than the half-elf's usual state, Raistlin still narrowed his eyes at him curiously. He answered, shrugging his shoulders, "I would suggest rest and relaxation, the most effective of all medicines. Relaxation may not be entirely feasible, given our current situation and the ever-present danger that surrounds us, but rest would be enough. Lay down, sleep for a few hours, and let the reactionary desperation you feel resolve itself into a calmer set of feelings. Again, this is merely my suggestion to lessen your volatility, but then again I have no blue, mystical staff blessed by the power of a god." He had a staff, but it wasn't blue and it wasn't exactly a conduit for godly healing powers – although 'mystical' seemed to apply to it quite nicely as a descriptor.

Goldmoon was just as intent on him as the others and she shook her head at that. "No, the staff can heal wounds of the flesh, but exhaustion and its symptoms are beyond its powers. I agree with Raistlin's suggestion that we rest and allow ourselves some time to gather our forces." Raistlin inclined his head, and inspected his hand once more. The blood was starting to congeal around the wound, the bleeding largely stopped. Turning away from the group and starting back toward his corner, Raistlin considered whether he should take the time to mix an ointment to stave off infection, or if just sinking down and sleeping immediately could be a considered an equally justified course of action.

"Wait, Raistlin!" The dwarf's gruff voice caused Raistlin to pause and turn back to the group. They were all staring after him, the flickering of the fire playing with the shadows on their faces, the kender trapped between Caramon's hand gripping his topknot and Tika's hand covering his mouth. Flint stepped out in front of the group and, with an expression of mingled embarrassment and distrust, mumbled, "What about our weapons?"

Raistlin snorted. Of course that would be the first aspect of this situation they addressed: the evil, untrustworthy mage casting some sort of malicious spell on their honest steel. He reluctantly dragged himself back to the fireside. Looking down at Flint, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow as he asked, "Do you promise to keep them by your sides instead of at each other's throats?" The question sounded more tired than mocking. Flint nodded slowly. "Aye, we'll be good." Raistlin snorted once again and approached Sturm, reaching towards the sword hanging limp and forlorn at his side. The knight took a jerky step back, brow furrowed, and Raistlin caught Caramon taking an uneasy step towards them in response in his peripheral vision. With a sharp sigh, Raistlin threw his hands in the air.

"By all the gods, Brightblade, give me the damnable thing so I can remove the spell, go to sleep and try to forget this night ever happened!" There was quite a bit more than annoyance ringing in his tone, but at this point, Raistlin was past caring. It was the truth: he wanted this night to be over and all memory of it buried. The knight handed the blade over, though, likely more out of surprise than any degree of trust, and Raistlin thanked whatever wanted thanks that the companions said nothing as he stalked over to the fire with the pretentious thing in his hand. He stood before the flames, wavering slightly on his feet, and held the sword over them, just close enough to allow the tongues of flame to lap at the glinting silver. Closing his eyes, Raistlin dredged up the reversal spell in his mind and, as quickly and as superficially as possible, chanted it while aiming his power at the sword. He harnessed the latent magic singing within the flames and he felt the spell working, spreading through Sturm's blade and jumping from there to the companions' weapons, erasing his working on each. Raistlin retreated as soon as he felt the reversal complete, pulling the sword from the fire.

He didn't want to delve too deep into his mind or his magic – not now.

He took a breath before moving, feeling a twinge cramping his lungs, spreading to tickle his throat. He was going to start coughing, and he was going to start coughing soon. Raistlin shoved the sword back into the knight's hands and focused on breathing slowly. He needed to rid himself of the companions' scrutiny before he gave in to the fit – he refused to be a spectacle for their amusement.

"There. The spell has been reversed and your weapons will respond to you once more. Try to handle them responsibly for once." Perfect. It was the perfect conclusion to his appearance; it was curt, succinct, vaguely insulting; it conveyed quite clearly his lack of desire to continue any conversation or interaction with the others. However, it was not enough.

"Raistlin," Goldmoon spoke with authority, but it was only her frequent demonstrations of possessing more sense than most of the companions combined that kept Raistlin from ignoring her. "Your hand. You've wounded it in helping us. I could try to use the staff – "

Raistlin just shook his head. "The staff heals its own. It will not heal me." As if Sturm and the others needed any more justification for their hatred, but it was the truth and there was no avoiding it. Grudgingly, seeing Goldmoon's face fall, Raistlin inclined his head once again and spoke, "I thank you for offering, however. Wise men have made many statements over the centuries, most of them ridiculous and facile, but among them is the idea that 'in difficult matters, one's intention counts as much as one's action.' I would break with my rule of automatically disregarding anything a wise man states to say that such an idea is certainly applicable in this situation." Goldmoon smiled at that, nodding gratefully, while Caramon and Riverwind, standing on either side of her, exchanged baffled looks. Raistlin smirked and felt some of his irritation lift. Idiots.

Tanis was looking at him with something that looked suspiciously like guilt. "You did do that to your hand to get us to stop, Raistlin. I mean, is there nothing – " Raistlin had started turning away as Tanis spoke, feeling he had been gracious enough for a lifetime. What stopped him was not the half-elf's soppy, self-incriminating feelings, but the mischievous glint of the fire as its light played along the exposed skin of his arm, Raistlin having pulled the sleeve of his robe up to keep it from soaking up the blood on his hand. The golden light of the fire flicked like a sprite along the golden skin, mingling with it until it was unclear how much of the sparkling halo of light was the fire and how much the bright reflection of his skin. Gold on gold, it was as if the firelight was attracted to his skin, as if they were one and the same…

Something snapped into place in Raistlin's mind, and if the connection had a faint odour of the icy presence about it, that did nothing to cool Raistlin's sudden excitement.

Whipping around to face Tanis, who looked more confused than ever – which was something of a feat – Raistlin did his best to dampen the wild look in his eyes. "Yes, yes, you can do something for me – all of you. Don't move."

And with that, Raistlin plunged his wounded hand into the flames.


End file.
